Page 6 of Burned Alive to Be His

XVITAR

I watch her from the shadows of my cavern entrance, a predator observing its prey.

The night has fallen, and the cold is slithering down from the high peaks of Bloodstorm, a silent hunter that preys on the weak.

The human is huddled in the back of her pathetic excuse for a shelter, a small, dark shape against the darker stone.

She is not sleeping. I can feel the tension in her stillness, the hyper-vigilance of a creature that has never known safety.

A low growl rumbles through my chest, a sound of pure, undiluted annoyance.

The feeling is a foreign irritant, a burr under my scales.

I am annoyed that I cooked the meat. I am annoyed that I felt compelled to do so.

I tell myself it was a matter of pragmatism.

The creature is useless to the trials if she starves.

Her defiance is intriguing, but a corpse has no will to be broken. My investment must be protected.

The logic is sound. It is the logic of a warrior, of a leader.

But it does not soothe the restless fire in my gut.

It does not explain why the image of her swallowing that raw meat, her dark eyes glistening with a mixture of tears and pure, unadulterated hate, is seared into my mind.

It does not explain why the thought of the night’s cold seeping into her fragile bones makes my own muscles clench.

This is a weakness. A distraction. Grakar was right. She is a parasite, feeding not on our resources, but on my focus.

I turn away from the sight of her, my jaw tight.

I stride deeper into my cavern, the air growing warmer, rich with the scent of my own power.

My hoard glitters in the dim, magical light that emanates from the strange ores I have collected.

Piles of sea-worn glass, the iridescent shells of leviathans, the fossilized bones of creatures long extinct.

I run my hand over a large, perfectly smooth obsidian sphere, its surface cool and unyielding.

These are my treasures. They are beautiful, they are rare, and they are silent.

They do not challenge me. They do not look at me with eyes that see too much.

But the image of her persists. Small. Defiant. Cold.

Vell'os! The curse is a sharp bark in the silence of my cavern.

I cannot have my prize freezing to death before the trials have even truly begun. It would be an embarrassment. Vorlag would see it as a failure of my duty. Grakar would see it as proof of my weakness.

I snatch a large, cured pelt from a pile near my sleeping ledge. It is the hide of an ursain, thick and heavy, its fur a deep, lustrous black. It is a fine pelt, a trophy from a difficult hunt. It is too good for her. But it is the first one I grab.

I stalk back through the settlement, the pelt slung over my shoulder. The night is quiet now, most of my clan asleep in their own caverns. The only sounds are the hiss of the steam vents and the ever-present, hungry rumble of the volcano.

I reach her cave, a black maw in the side of the rock spire. She is still awake. I can feel her watching me, her senses as sharp as any wild thing’s. I stand at the entrance, the pelt a heavy weight on my shoulder. I should just toss it in, as I did the meat. A simple, impersonal transaction.

But I don’t.

A darker, more primal instinct takes hold. An urge to see her face, to reassert the order of things. To remind myself, and her, exactly what she is.

I step into the cave.

The air inside is frigid, a sharp contrast to the ambient heat of the island. She scrambles back, pressing herself against the far wall, a cornered animal. Her eyes are wide in the darkness, reflecting the faint starlight from outside. I can see the glint of the small, pathetic blade in her hand.

“I am not here to feed you scraps this time, human,” I say, my voice becoming a low growl.

I let the heavy pelt slide from my shoulder. It lands on the gritty floor with a soft, heavy thud.

She stares at it, then back at me, her expression a mixture of confusion and deep-seated suspicion. She does not understand. Good. Let her be off-balance.

“The nights are cold,” I state, as if explaining a complex strategy. “You are more valuable to me alive than frozen. Take it.”

She does not move. She simply watches me, her knuckles white where she grips her blade. Her silence is a physical thing, a wall she erects against me. And it infuriates me. It is a challenge, as clear as if she had spat in my face.

“Did you not hear me?” I demand, taking a step closer. The cave is small, and with two steps, I am looming over her. I am a mountain of shadow and heat, and she is a speck of dust at my feet. “It is a command.”

“I do not need your gifts,” she whispers, her voice trembling but laced with steel.

“It is not a gift,” I snarl, my patience shredding. “It is a tool. A resource. To keep my property from spoiling. Nothing more.”

“I am not your property.”

The words, so quiet, so defiant, are the final spark.

The control I pride myself on, the warrior’s discipline, shatters.

A red haze of pure, primal rage descends.

All I see is her defiance. All I feel is the overwhelming, instinctual need to dominate.

To prove her wrong in the most fundamental way possible.

To break her will and brand her as mine.

I lunge.

She is fast, but I am faster. I catch her before she can even fully scramble to her feet. My hand clamps around her arm, my fingers digging into her fragile bones. I rip the blade from her grasp and fling it into the darkness. It clatters uselessly against the far wall.

She struggles, a wild thing caught in a trap, her small fists beating against my chest. It is like being struck by moths.

I wrap my other arm around her waist and lift her, slamming her back against the cold, hard wall of the cave.

The impact knocks a sharp gasp from her lungs.

I press my body against hers, pinning her, my strength an overwhelming, undeniable truth.

“You are mine ,” I hiss, my face inches from hers. Her scent fills my senses, a heady mix of fear and that unique, earthy warmth. It is intoxicating. It fuels the fire in my blood. “You belong to me. Your body. Your breath. Your defiance. All of it is mine.”

Her eyes are wide with terror, but even now, she does not look away. She glares at me, her chest heaving. It is the most alive I have ever seen her.

My hand slides from her arm to her jaw, my thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone, the small, jagged scar on her lip.

Her skin is soft, a shocking contrast to the hard, scaled world I know.

My own body responds with a violence that really has nothing to do with anger.

A thick, heavy lust, hot and demanding, pools in my groin.

I lower my head, my lips brushing against hers. She flinches, trying to turn her head, but I hold her fast. “You will learn your place, little human,” I murmur against her mouth.

Then I kiss her.

It is not a kiss of tenderness. It is an invasion.

A claiming. I force her lips apart, my tongue plunging into her mouth, tasting her fear, her desperation.

She is stiff and unresponsive at first, a frozen statue of terror.

But I am a dragon. I am fire and heat and relentless will.

I plunder her mouth, my hand sliding from her jaw down the slender column of her throat, my thumb pressing against the frantic, fluttering pulse at its base.

And then, something shifts.

A small, broken sound escapes her throat, a whimper that is half-protest, half-surrender.

Her body, the traitor, begins to respond.

A fine tremor runs through her, a vibration that has little to do with the cold.

Her lips, so resistant a moment ago, soften under mine.

Her hands, which were pushing against my chest, now cling to my scaled forearms, her fingers digging in.

I feel the change in her, and a savage, triumphant roar builds in my chest. I break the kiss, my breath coming in harsh pants.

My gaze drifts to her. Her eyes are dazed, her lips swollen and wet from my kiss.

Her body is still pressed against mine, and I can feel the subtle, unmistakable signs of her arousal.

“Your mind may defy me,” I growl, my voice thick with lust. “But your body knows the truth. It knows its master.”

I slide my hand down, over the curve of her hip, and cup her between her legs, my fingers pressing against the thin linen of her tunic. She is wet. Soaking. A hot, slick heat that proves her body’s betrayal. She gasps, her eyes widening, a flush of shame and desire coloring her cheeks.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” I command, my fingers moving, rubbing against her through the fabric. “Lie to me.”

A broken moan escapes her lips, and her hips give a small, involuntary jerk against my hand. “Please…” she whispers, the word a ragged plea.

“Please what?” I demand, my own control stretched to its breaking point. My cock is a thick, hard length against my breeches, aching with a need that is becoming an agony. “Beg me for it. Beg me to take what is mine.”

I don’t wait for an answer. I tear at the front of her tunic, the cheap fabric ripping with a satisfying sound.

Her small, pale breasts are bared to the cool night air, her nipples hard and beaded.

I lower my head and take one into my mouth, my tongue laving the peak, my teeth grazing the sensitive flesh.

She cries out, a sharp, keening sound that is pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her back arches, pressing her body more fully against mine. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, her nails scraping against my scales.

This is what I wanted. This is the submission I craved. But as I feel her body come alive beneath me, as I taste her surrender on my tongue, it is not enough. I need more. I need to be inside her. I need to fill her, to brand her from the inside out.